


Mercy Buckets

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Steve touches Jerry's hair and Jerry will never be the same, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: Vomit, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-11-12 16:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18014681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Collection of friendshippy and/or HC stories featuring Jerry and various other members of the team. Unconnected chapters.Chapter 3: upset about his parents' divorce, Danny heads to Steve's house-- and is not pleased when he finds Jerry there instead. But it turns out Jerry's actually pretty good at cheering people up. Who knew?Chapter 4: Adam falls apart at a crime scene. Jerry helps him put himself back together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Mercy Buckets" is the title of the song that Jerry sings in tribute to Toast.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Suzie's death, Chin takes Jerry home.

Once Steve’s gone Jerry just sits, eyes fixed on his desk, slipping half-shut now and again. It’s been a long, long day. Without exaggeration, honestly, one of the longest of his life, and he’s distantly proud of himself for not collapsing against Steve’s shoulder and sobbing his guts out. God knows he wanted to. But he’d kept calm, kept it together, though he’s starting to wonder now if that was less a function of him controlling himself and more some kind of latent shock.

That might also explain all the shaking. Not to mention the utter inability to move that’s got him glued in place; probably going to just put his head down and sleep here if Steve turns out to be the only one who bothers to check on him, if nobody else comes down here and pries him free—

That’s not what happens, though.

It’s probably less than ten minutes after Steve leaves that Chin slips quietly through the door, gives Jerry a thorough once-over and then an equally thorough hug.

“Come on,” he murmurs, hand on Jerry’s arm. And thankfully it’s not a physical lift he needs so much as an emotional one because Chin sure as hell couldn’t pick him up, but he does get him standing, help him escape the quicksand that’s become his desk chair. “You’re gonna stay with me.”

Jerry can only nod, and lumber behind Chin, out to the elevator, upstairs, to the parking lot.

The sun’s down. He was not prepared for that. In Chin’s passenger seat he wraps his arms around himself and shakes worse than ever, until Chin turns the heat on, without comment. He leans his forehead against the window. Just breathes, while Chin takes him home.

He hasn’t lived at Chin’s house for months. Still there’s no use denying that it feels safer now than maybe anywhere else, and he doesn’t hesitate an instant before toeing his shoes off and curling up in the corner of the living room couch. Chin brings him water. Then, as though he doesn’t know what else to do—and maybe he doesn’t—he tests Jerry’s forehead, like he’s a kid with a maybe-fever.

“You hungry?”

Jerry shakes his head.

It’s not a grief thing; grief makes him eat. The day after his dad died he bought and ate an entire quarter-sheet cake.

But his dad did not die of a gunshot wound. His dad did not die in his arms, getting blood all— _all over_ him—

“I—” he gets out, before choking on the rest. “I feel—sick—”

“Okay. Okay, hey.” Chin sits beside him on the couch. “You don’t need to, if you’re not up for it, brah.”

He looks worried. And Jerry’s briefly confused, before he realizes that there’s tears on his face, and the shaking has become near-convulsions. _I’m okay_ , he tries to tell Chin. _I’m okay_. But what’s coming out is exactly the fucking opposite, because what’s coming out is—

“I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe— I can’—I c’n’—”

Chin touches his arm; he flinches away. Gasps out some new sounds; words flipping like a dying butterfly. Ineffectual.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” he gets out, in one burst.

Body buzzing, humming, aching. Teeth chattering. Pounding a fist to his chest to try to break up the ice forming there, the stone forming there.

“Okay,” Chin says, and his voice is distant but very clear. “This sucks, Jer, but it won’t last long. And I’m gonna stay with you. I’m gonna stay with you.”

“’m a—‘m hav’n a—”

“I know, I know, hey. Hardly surprising, after the day you’ve had. I’ll try to help, okay?”

“Mm—m’kay.”

“Hey, do you remember Ms. H? The band director?”

“Mm. Mm-hm.”

“Try to breathe the way she taught us, okay? You’re breathing from your chest now, I can see it—breathe from your diaphragm. From your stomach. Come on.”

“ _Can’t_.”

“Yeah you can, c’mon. Can I put my hand here?”

Jerry opens his eyes, sees Chin’s hand hovering a few inches above his belly. He nods.

Chin presses lightly, and in another moment Jerry might be embarrassed to have somebody touching his gut, but right now it’s the least of his concerns . “Remember the day she made us lie on the floor? She put textbooks on our stomachs, told us to breathe so that they’d raise. Do that now. Breathe so it moves my hand, okay?”

“I _can’t_ ,” Jerry sobs.

“Yeah, you can, sweetheart. It’s not easy, but you can. Breathe so you’re pushing my hand, c’mon.”

He tries.

He does.

Breath fills his body, and he stutters in relief and lets himself sink forward. His knees sting, hitting something solid; fingers press against the hardwood and he realizes that he’s on all fours. Stupid, but he’s breathing easier this way.

Chin’s knelt beside him, hand in his hair; telling him he’s safe now, telling him to keep breathing.

He does.

*

Jerry both remembers and does not remember the attack ending; Chin helping him down the hallway to his old bedroom; Chin all but fucking putting him to bed.

He both remembers and does not remember sleeping.

The sun’s already late-morning-bright outside, when he either wakes up or comes-to, and he lies in bed and tries to remember more, and tries to forget.

Chin comes eventually, as Jerry knew he would. He knocks before easing the door open, peeking inside with a small, gentle smile.

“Hey.”

Jerry blinks.

“You get any sleep?”

Jerry blinks.

“Can I sit?”

Jerry nods. It’s an actual chore, resisting the urge to curl up against Chin as he settles cross-legged on the bed, close at hand. He compromises; lets himself lean in.

“Do you think you’d like breakfast?”

“Nn.”

“We could go for a walk. Get a little air.”

Jerry shakes his head. Tears have been swelling up and ebbing away the whole time, and the only thing he really wants to do is close his eyes and let them come.

They sit in silence, for a bit.

“I called a friend of mine this morning,” Chin says, quietly.

“Mm?”

“He’s a trauma therapist.”

And if Chin was looking to prompt a verbal reaction, he’s finally managed to. “I don’t need a trauma therapist,” Jerry croaks.

“Yes,” Chin replies, and touches Jerry’s wrist. “Jerry, you do.”

He pulls his hand back, turns his eyes from Chin’s gaze. He can feel his bottom lip trembling.

“We don’t have to talk about it now, if you’re not ready,” Chin says, calmly. “But we’re talking about it soon. In situations like these, the sooner you start, the better.”

Jerry closes his eyes; feels his face scrunching up, tight and contorted. Tears well again, spill over.

But Chin’s sigh doesn’t sound frustrated, or impatient, or anything like that; it sounds sad. “Okay. I’m sorry. Would you rather be alone?”

Up until that point Jerry had managed not to make any blubbery-type noises; but as he shakes his head it all comes loose and he hiccups a few times, then sniffles loudly. “No. No, I don’t—don’t wanna be alone. Please.”

“Think I can help with that,” Chin says, and it sounds like he’s smiling; he crawls to sit beside Jerry, against the headboard.

“And I know—you’re right—I do—I do need to—to deal with it. Because, um—I think I’m definitely—kind of messed up about it? Like—like—I’m hungry but—when I think about food I feel like—if I go near it—I’ll get blood on it?” Juddery half-sobs turn into the real thing, and he can barely get out the next words through the gush of them. “ _And I know that’s probably not normal, so_.”

Chin kneels on the bed and folds Jerry into a massive hug; Jerry grabs back, hard as he can, bawling into Chin’s shoulder. He tugs so hard that Chin falters and falls. So they crash, and Chin resettles them, until he’s sat correctly and Jerry’s sprawled across his lap, face to Chin’s upper thigh.

After a moment, Chin coaxes his head up, slides a pillow underneath. Then for a while, there’s nothing but the crying, but the noisy, nasty weeping, and Chin’s hand stroking his hair, and Chin’s voice speaking softly to him, keeping him from falling away completely—

*

A phone, buzzing, wakes him. Chin answers as quickly and quietly as he can, but still the sound and movement rouse Jerry from his sickly, murky dreams.

“Hey, Steve,” Chin whispers, into the phone. “Yeah, he’s sleeping. No. No. Let me know if we catch anything,” he adds, and touches Jerry’s shoulder in a way that feels almost unconscious. “If we don’t, I’m staying here.”

Chin goes quiet. On the other end, Jerry can hear Steve’s voice, his warm, authoritative tenor, though he can’t make out the words.

“It’s pretty much what you’d expect,” Chin replies, after a little while. “He won’t eat. He’s having nightmares, and I haven’t had much luck, waking him up from them.” Another pause. “I’m—yeah, I—I got him an appointment, with a trauma counselor.” Chin sighs, listening to Steve on the other end. “I know. I hear you. He’ll—yeah. He’ll be all right, but he’s not, right now. Let me go; I’ll talk to you more later.”

He ends the call.

“Thanks for not tellin’ him ‘bout last night.”

From Chin’s expression, it’s clear that he didn’t know Jerry had woken. Still the surprise smooths over quickly. “There’s no shame in it, Jer. But there’s also no need for him to know.”

“That the guy who wants a law enforcement badge has panic attacks?”

Chin’s a lot softer than most would give him credit for; as he smiles, he brushes the hair from Jerry’s forehead. “How many has it been?”

Jerry pulls himself upright, moves a small distance away. “In what timeframe?”

“Ever.”

“Dozenish. Maybe less.”

“In the last ten years?”

“Three.”

“And since you started working with us?”

“Just that one,” Jerry whispers.

“One panic attack every three years or so, and for damn good reason? That’s not a disorder, Jer. It’s not a disqualification.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him?”

“Like I said. There was no need to. And, I know you, and I know you’re, uh, _slightly_ desperate, for Steve McGarrett’s approval.”

Despite himself, Jerry smiles a bit. “Slightly.”

“Minorly.”

“Just, the tiniest of—tiniest bit of desperation.”

“Honestly, it seems like most people who meet him suddenly live or die by whether or not they impress him.”

“He came down to check on me, last night, right before we left the Palace.”

“Well, he cares about you. You’re on his team.”

Jerry chooses not to respond. “You said I was havin’ nightmares?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really. Not specifically. I didn’t, um—I didn’t like, do anything weird, did I?”

Chin’s head tilts to the side, and he smiles; somehow he always seems like everybody’s big brother, no matter the respective ages. “You didn’t do anything weird, Jer. You were just moving around. Kind of mumbling. You cried a little.”

“Oh, cool. I guess I didn’t do enough of that when I was awake.”

Then, before Jerry totally processes what’s happening, Chin’s holding his hand. Like really, legitimately, holding his hand. He stares at their fingers, thick intertwined with thin, and watches the shifting bones as Chin squeezes tightly. “Jerry, you have to get that this a normal reaction. As much as it ever could be for this kind of thing. Look, I get that you wanna—that you want to be somebody who takes things well. Who doesn’t get bothered by things. But this isn’t— this isn’t the time for that. You experienced something honestly traumatic. Anybody in your position—anybody in your position would need help getting through that. Seriously. Anybody.”

Jerry sniffles a little—apparently on the verge of crying _again_ —but something in Chin’s words has gotten through that hadn’t before. He nods. Squeezes Chin’s hand. “I just keep seeing it. Like, seeing her fall. And hearing—myself. Screaming for help. It’s like I’m stuck—in that moment. And when I try to remind myself that I’m not—that I’m not there anymore—I feel so—I feel so horrible, feeling relieved, because Suzie’s still there. Y’know? She always will be.”

The trickle of tears has started, and Chin moves closer, pressing their shoulders together. “No. She’s not, Jerry. She’s dead; she’s not in that moment. She’s not stuck there.”

“That’s not any better! That she’s dead? How can I feel relieved that I’m safe—when she’s gone? When they _got_ her?”

“You can because you can, brah. You’re allowed to feel two things at the same time. You’re allowed to feel relieved that you’re safe, and still feel everything that you feel about Suzie being gone. Going back to that moment is not gonna change that moment. And I know there will be times you can’t help it. But you are allowed to pull yourself back out. You are allowed to look around, and see this house—and see me”— Jerry laughs, stickily— “and realize that you’re all right. You’re safe. And by the way? For what it’s worth, I’m really thankful for that.”

The honesty on Chin’s face warms Jerry from the outside in. He hides his face in one hand, still gripping Chin’s with the other, and swallows down a few quiet sobs; but it’s easier this time, to stop, to take control. He scrubs his eyes, peers up at Chin once more. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Chin murmurs.

“I think ‘m okay. For right now. I might just take a shower, if that’s cool?”

“Of course.” Chin squeezes his hand one last time before he lets go; Jerry almost shivers, but manages not to. “You think you’re up for lunch?”

“Um. Maybe ask me after I feel cleaner?”

“Fair enough. Hey, go shower. I’ll be right in the living room, okay?”

“Thanks,” Jerry whispers, rubbing his nose. As he shifts from the bed, the light out the window catches his eye; it’s definitely afternoon now.

“What’s up?”

“’sbeen a day.” He gestures outside. “More than a day, now.”

“Yeah. It has been.”

“Yeah. Nothin’ specific about it, it’s just—it’s weird. It’s weird.”

“It is.” Chin pats him on the shoulder, half comforting, half shooing him from the bed. “Go shower. Then even if you don’t eat, you need to have something to drink.”

“Okay.” He pushes himself off the bed. Looks back, some childish part of him expecting the room to be empty; but Chin, of course, is still there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a corpse full of worms, and Jerry falls in love with Steve. Some other stuff happens in between.

If Jerry ever chronicles their cases—which, to be honest, he fully intends to do—this one will have an awesome name. _The Mystery of the Shivering Corpse_ —or something to that effect. So named, naturally, because the body they’re currently standing by, covered with a sheet in the morgue, does in fact appear to be shivering.

It’s not shivering, of course.

It’s full to bursting with, well, worms. Worms that are still alive, despite the death of their host; worms that are still wriggling under his skin, creating the illusion that he’s shivering.

Jerry knows this. So he _should be_ prepared for this. But the instant that Max pulls the sheet back is the exact instant that a long, white worm slips out of the dead guy’s eye and—

Jerry’s stomach sloshes, like a wobbly water balloon. He holds his breath and swallows, and thinks for an instant that he’s got it under control— but yeah, no.

He totally doesn’t.

Another slosh, while something cold crawls up Jerry’s spine and something hot crawls up his throat, and just as he’s made his peace with throwing up all over the floor of the morgue, somebody’s got him by the arm and is steering him miraculously in front of a trash can.

Jerry crashes to his knees, lurches over the can, and spews a massive gush of vomit.

It is, of course, humiliating. Beyond humiliating, really. He’s actually gotten pretty good at working through fear but, as _Inside Out_ made very clear, fear and disgust are separate emotions, and apparently he’s not as good at working through disgust.

And honestly? If this is how he’s going to react to being grossed out, he’d sort of rather Steve see him be afraid.

 _Steve_. Oh, wow, he just lost his lunch directly in front of Captain America himself. Not to mention that somebody is currently sort of rubbing his back, and Max wouldn’t do that—so who else could it be?

He threw up in front of Steve and now Steve is rubbing his back.

“Nah, he’s okay, Max,” Steve is saying now, voice not too far from Jerry’s ears. “Not for nothin’, buddy, but I’m more on his side than yours. That’s not bothering you at all, is it?”

“Perhaps it would, commander, were it the first time I had encountered such a phenomenon. However, I once examined a corpse on a body farm whose infestation far exceeded—”

“ _Max_ ,” Steve groans. “C’mon. I’m already not gonna eat lunch today, man. Or spaghetti, probably ever again.”

It’s the _spaghetti_ thing that does it. Because Jerry had brought himself mostly under control by then—due half in part of sheer force of will and half in part to Steve’s calming presence—but now he’s seeing a plate of tomato sauce and parasites, and Jerry moans and starts retching anew. Throws up again, then two more times. At this point it seems like he’s in it to win it; not stopping ‘til he’s empty, in other words.

Then Steve laughs, not softly but not unkindly either. “Sorry, Jer. Hey, you gotta thing?”

Jerry can only grunt a question noise, in the space between two mostly-dry heaves.

“A thing? Y’know—a hair thingie?”

It’s at that moment that Jerry realizes two separate things: one, that Steve McGarrett does not know the term for a hair tie, and two, that he, Jerry, wore his hair down today.

Right: because he tried that new shampoo. Because it smelled amazing, like papaya but in a really manly way, so he wore his hair down hoping maybe Steve would smell it—but now all Steve’s probably smelling is the reek of half-digested veggie burger. So that was pointless. Not to mention now there’s every chance he’s got puke in his freaking hair—

But he doesn’t. Forcing his eyes open reveals not a single strand hanging down in the danger zone, and it’s at this point that he realizes a third thing: Steve’s holding his hair back. Not only is Steve McGarrett sort of comforting him while he vomits his guts up; he also sweetly, pragmatically, _holding his hair back_.

It makes him feel a hundred things all at once. A few of them are humiliation-themed but a few of them are sort of warm and comfortable, and at least one of them is making his stomach flop, but in a much gentler way than it was a minute ago.

Jerry does, in fact, have a hair tie. He fishes it, a little shakily, out of his pocket and passes it back to Steve, who proceeds to wrangle Jerry’s curls into a low, loose ponytail. Then his fingers are gone and Jerry feels like crying.

“How you doin’, buddy?”

“’kay,” Jerry croaks, then spits a little, because his mouth still tastes horrific. Steve pats him on the back with a sort of finality.

“I’ve gotta get the other guys up to date. Take a minute, okay?”

Without pulling away at all, Jerry nods. Only when he hears the door close behind him does he sit back; because he was _not_ going to let Steve McGarrett see his post-puking face, but he doesn’t really care if Max does. He blinks up at the guy, and sniffles. “That was dumb.”

“Actually, the act of vomiting when repulsed has strong evolutionary rationale—”

“Nah. It was dumb, dude,” Jerry huffs. And the hint of mischief in Max’s eyes tells him that Max did in fact know what he meant.

“If you prefer. Should I bring you a tissue?”

Jerry nods, and when Max hands him the box a few seconds later he blows his nose and cleans himself up (at least enough to walk down to the bathroom, where he can wash his face properly).

“How are you feeling?”

“’m okay now, Max,” Jerry replies; and he is. He hauls himself, just a little unsteadily, to his feet and casts a wary eye in the direction of the corpse.

The sheet’s been pulled back over it. A rush of affection for Max comes over Jerry so strongly that he almost laughs a little.

Max just quirks an eyebrow and gestures at the trash can. “You’re taking that with you, I presume?”

“Uh—yeah.”

“You’ll return it empty?”

“Yeah,” Jerry huffs, still grateful to Max but suddenly a little low on energy, and struck by the desire to eat a piece of toast and take a nap. But that’s not in the cards—not for a few hours, anyway. He’ll have to settle for splashing water on his face and buying a sugar cookie (and a pack of mints) from the vending machine.

Max nods goodbye as he takes the trash can and shuffles from the morgue. In the bathroom he rinses his mouth out a few times then just stands, shaky and still a little queasy, allowing himself half a minute of self-pity. Because throwing up sucks already. And he threw up _a lot_ , and in the morgue, and in front of Steve McGarrett.

Although, he reminds himself: Steve was really cool about it. He was calm and patient and nonchalant, and he pulled Jerry’s hair back for him, and although, actually, he did a terrible job and Jerry’s ponytail is slipping loose already, that’s okay. It doesn’t change anything. Nothing can change the fact that Jerry now knows what it feels like to have Steve McGarrett’s fingers in his hair. Which makes the whole thing sort of worth it.

So. In the end it seems like _The Mystery of the Shivering Corpse_ won’t just be the one where Jerry gets sick, or just even the one with the dead guy full of worms. Nope. It’ll be the one where the awkward, unassuming police consultant transitions from having an off-handed crush on the handsome commander to being—honestly? More or less in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And then Jerry doesn't wash his hair for three days, like a fan who got their hand touched by a rock star.)
> 
> Didn't actually intend this to be the genesis of Jerry's more-than-casual crush on Steve, but that's just how it worked out. I think maybe one of the reasons I like writing about the two of them is that they're both genuinely kind people, but are sort of shocked and left defenseless when other people are genuinely kind to them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upset about his parents' divorce, Danny heads to Steve's house—and is not pleased when he finds Jerry there instead. But it turns out Jerry's actually pretty good at cheering people up. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during season 4, when Danny's mom was staying with him and Jerry was staying with Steve.

So, Danny’s mother went on a date last night.

His _mother_ went on a _date_ last night.

And although she seemed pretty indifferent afterwards, the guy called again today, and so now they’re out to lunch, and Danny—

Danny can’t take it. Can’t stay in the house and marinate or he’ll drive himself even crazier.

She’s only been gone maybe ten minutes when he gets in the car and drives to Steve’s.

Because Steve McGarrett is an asshole and a schmuck but at this point there’s no use denying that he’s also Danny’s best friend. BFF, as Max would say. And Danny needs his BFF right now, to rant and rave and—

And freak out. Break down. Honestly, most likely, have the cry he’s been avoiding for weeks now.

His parents are getting divorced. Actually, literally. And yes, he’s a grown man, but—but—

His parents are getting divorced.

And he fucking wants his BFF.

So the fact that it’s not Steve he finds but Jerry— he’s not too fucking happy about it. Not happy, and also surprised. With everything else going on, he’d honestly forgotten that the guy was staying here. Hiding from the Chinese, or whatever. But there he is, in all his big-bellied, hippie-haired glory, curled up on Steve’s couch like he owns the place.

What.

The.

 _Fuck_.

“Hey, man,” Jerry greets, lighting up a little. He puts his book down, obviously ready to engage in pleasantries, but Danny waves him away.

“Where’s Steve?”

“Out with Catherine, I think.”

“When’s he comin’ back?”

“I dunno. You okay?”

“Don’t ask me that, okay,” Danny snaps, stalking out of the room, leaving Jerry sort of gaping. So sue him, he wants who he wants. Came over with very specific intentions of pounding a few whiskeys in Steve’s kitchen, then crying a few tears on Steve’s shoulder. Not interacting with their resident conspiracy nut. Now Steve’s _not_ here but Jerry _is_ , meaning Danny can’t even start in on the drinking alone, in peace?

Well fuck that, he’s going to anyway.

Blinking away a blur of either anger or tears—he’s _honestly_ not sure which—Danny pours himself a finger of whiskey, downs it, downs another, then grabs a beer and takes it out to the beach. There he throws himself into his customary seat and glowers out at the ocean.

“Hey, um. You want some fudge?”

And no, of course Jerry wouldn’t just leave him be. Leave him to wallow.

He glances back to find the guy standing a few feet behind him, looking eager. And he can’t quite stop himself from responding with maybe just a little meanness in his eyes. “I do not.”

“Just,” Jerry adds, wilting, “you’re from New Jersey. Right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s from the shore,” Jerry replies, proffering a familiar white box. “Friend of mind sent it. To say congrats about the rings.”

Danny turns back towards the water. But for whatever reason, when Jerry doesn’t leave, he sighs and takes the bait. “You got a friend in New Jersey?”

“Yeah, couple,” Jerry replies. Out of the corner of Danny’s eye, he sees him step hesitantly forward. “Did part of my undergrad over there. Up closer to New York, but we’d do day trips down the shore a lot. Wildwood, Ocean City. Obviously I moved back here, but I kept in touch with a few people.”

Which is an awful lot to process about a guy that Danny didn’t even think had friends here, on the island.

“Didn’t really peg you for the type to—“

“Go to school five thousand miles away?” Jerry finishes, and Danny looks up to find him smiling crookedly. He’s moving ever-closer into Danny’s line of sight.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Well, y’know. I haven’t always been— like I am now.”

“A conspiracy nut?”

“Absolutely not where I was going with that, dude! I’ve always been a seeker of truth. Just not always, like, such a shut-in?”

“What happened?” Danny asks, because okay, he’s curious, and it’s the first time he’s gotten an appropriate segue into the question.

“Long story, but, summary version?” Jerry shrugs. “My dad died in ‘99. I never really bounced back.”

It’s such an intimate thing to say, to somebody you hardly know, and Danny feels himself soften a little. He leans back. “You two were close?”

“Really close. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I love my mom, and I love my sister. But growing up, my dad was my _person_. You know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Danny sighs, and stretches his legs out, mindful of how he moves his bad knee.

“Before he died, I was— I mean, probably still kind of a weirdo. But, like. High-functioning weirdo. Then he died, and over the next few years, I took a coupla other knocks, and. Now I’m a grown dude who lives in my mom’s basement.”

Danny swallows hard, pressure behind his eyes again because Jerry’s dad died and someday Danny’s mom is gonna die too and in the meantime she’s not even happy, and how much does that suck? It’s just sucks. “I’m sorry about your dad,” Danny tells him, a little hoarsely.

“Thanks,” Jerry replies, mildly. He’s fully in front of Danny by now. “Anyway. I’ll leave you be. Steve’ll be back soon.”

“Nah, Jer—” An apology is in order, and Danny doesn’t really feel like saying it; but he also doesn’t feel like leaving it unsaid. “You don’t gotta leave me be. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I jus’—“

“Just having a bad day?”

“It’s been a string of ‘em, honestly,” Danny sighs. He doesn’t know how much Jerry knows about the _situation_ , and he hardly feels like going into it. “Sorry for being an asshole.”

“It’s cool. Help me eat this fudge, man, ‘cause I’ll literally eat it all, otherwise.”

“Yeah. Si’down.”

Jerry does, settling carefully in the chair that’s typically Steve’s; it makes Danny wince, but only a little. He accepts the fudge as Jerry passes it to him.

At the sight of the white paper box, plastic knife nestled helpfully below four perfect rectangles, Danny wants to sob from sheer homesickness. With the box in his lap, sand under his feet, he could very well be back in Jersey. He’s been doing better lately, with the whole I-live-in-Hawaii-now thing, but all the divorce shit has stirred it up again. Because even though he’s not home—home had stayed the same. Home was still there, still the warm little house with both of his parents inside, and walking through the front door, no matter how long he’d been gone, always felt more or less the same—

It won’t anymore. That will be Ma’s house _or_ Pop’s house or, hell, maybe nobody’s anymore, because that’s how divorces end up sometimes. Going back to Jersey won’t really be going home, not like before. And he’ll still go, of course, but now he’ll have to split his already precious time into even smaller fractions because it’ll have to be Saturday with his mother and then Sunday with his father, or maybe reverse of that, who knows, but however it turns out will end up with him getting less of both, when he already gets so fucking little—

Suddenly Danny’s aware of Jerry’s eyes, staring at him while he stares at the fudge. Just how long they’ve been in this position, he can’t say.

With effort, he shakes himself; cuts little hunks of maple walnut and plain chocolate, and passes the rest of the box back to Jerry. Balances the maple on his thigh, bites into the chocolate.

The inimitable taste of _shore fudge_ that fills his mouth makes things a little better, and a little worse.

For a while they watch they watch the ocean in silence. It’s probably the longest Danny’s ever heard Jerry go without speaking, but it doesn’t actually feel all that awkward. The quiet is—nice. A bit guarded, but calm.

Eventually he finishes what he’s taken. Jerry just passes the box back over, and Danny cuts another small piece of chocolate, and a slightly larger one of rocky road before setting it on the table between them. The more he eats, the more the good homesickness wins against the bad.

“On the topic of other stuff I don’t talk about often,” Jerry says, apropos of nothing, and Danny swallows a mouthful of sticky chocolate sweetness and glances up at the guy. The expression on his round, bearded face is sort of—sad.

“What’s up?”

“Couple of months before my dad died, my best friend, his parents split. And I mean, we were late twenties, lil’ younger than you are, but I still remember him going through the whole thing of watching it happen from a distance. Like. Feeling bad about how bad it hurt, since he didn’t live at home anymore. It’s another kind of layer to it, I guess. I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Danny murmurs. Suddenly the sweetness is a little too much, and he grabs his almost-forgotten beer from its spot at his feet and drains it while Jerry continues.

“And it’s— I know it sounds kinda bad. But when my dad died, the one thing that I was, like, kinda relieved about was— I never had to watch that happen, y’know? I never had to watch him be sad. He was a happy guy. Happy, fat guy, keeled over from a heart attack and left a wife and two kids who all really loved him. Like. He didn’t have to hurt.” Jerry smiles, _miserably_ , and Danny has to look away. The beer’s gone, and he drops it to the sand.

“I was glad for that,” Jerry finishes. “Especially after watching Mika and his family go through what they did. It sounds ridiculous but I needed something to be happy about. Or less sad about. I needed _something_ , y’know?”

Danny nods, moving his arm as little as possible as he dries the two itchy tears that have finally snuck down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Jerry mutters, really sounding it. “I just meant, it sucks. You’re totally allowed to admit how bad it sucks.”

“Yeah. Uh.” Danny’s nose is getting in on the action now, so he has to wipe that too. “How’s your buddy now?”

“Um.” Jerry snorts, more a noise of sorrow than a real laugh. “Not too long after that, he was deployed. KIA.”

“Jesus fuck, Jerry,” Danny rasps, trying and failing not to cry a little more.

“Yeah, that was one of the other knocks I took. Sorry. I’m not cheering you up very much. Um. Misery loves company?”

“I guess,” Danny chokes, rubbing his forehead. “Fuck me. ‘s that peanut butter or vanilla?” In an effort to calm down, he jabs a finger at the tawny, golden fudge, the only flavor he hasn’t taken a bit of yet.

“Vanilla, if Wendy knows me well.” Jerry slices off a chunk and pops it in his mouth. “Yeah, she does.”

“God, I love vanilla, man. It’s an underrated fudge, it really is.” Danny scrubs a little more wetness from his face, then takes a piece of vanilla for himself, ignoring the rumble as his stomach starts to protest having nothing inside of it but alcohol and sweets.

“You want a tissue or something?”

“You have one?”

“No,” Jerry replies, and Danny laughs a little.

“Nah, don’t get up, babe. I’m okay. Who told you about my parents, by the way?”

“You gonna get mad at them if I tell you?”

“Only if it was Steve.”

“It wasn’t,” Jerry assures him. So Danny lets it be, eats his vanilla fudge and the rest of his rocky road as they lapse back into silence.

He’s just contemplating another beer when he hears the footsteps behind him. Steve makes no comment about Jerry taking his chair, just comes around in front of them and plops in the sand at Danny’s feet. Waves away the fudge as Jerry offers it, and stretches backwards with a little groan.

“How’s Cath?” Danny prompts, then has to clear his throat a bit.

“She’s good.”

“You’re not having dinner with her?”

Steve frowns lightly. “Well—Jerry said you were looking for me.”

Danny’s head whips to the side of its own accord, but Jerry looks away before their eyes can meet. “I did not ask him to tell you that.”

Steve doesn’t reply, just bops Danny’s knee with a fist. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Danny sighs; he’s not, really— but maybe he’s closer than he was before? The last hour has left him heavier by a quarter a pound of fudge, lighter by a couple of tears, and maybe— maybe— with a friend he didn’t have this morning?

He glances again at Jerry, who’s brave enough to meet his eyes this time. And yeah, Danny can admit, the man looks different now. Not on the outside, of course. On the outside he’s still this big, crazy-haired guy wearing a t-shirt better suited to somebody fifteen years his junior. Still, in his own words, a grown dude who lives in his mom’s basement. But now Danny sees more. Sees a guy who knows about Wildwood and Ocean City, who keeps in touch with old friends, who shares his snacks when somebody needs cheering up.

And a guy whose favorite person is gone. A guy who did not, in fact, live in his mom’s basement, until the world finally threw just a little too much shit at him, and honestly, Danny knows what that feels like.

Danny clears his throat again. “So, not for nothing, but my stomach’s killing from all this sugar. You two up for ordering some real food?”

That he includes them both does not go unnoticed by either.

“I could eat,” Steve says, sitting back again.

“Yeah.” Jerry glances between Danny and Steve, looking slightly wary. “That’s cool. If you guys are up for it.”

“Good. I want pizza. Anything you won’t eat on it?” Danny glances at Jerry.

“Um. Well, I’m—I’m vegetarian. But I could always pick stuff off—”

Danny doesn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Not gonna make you eat pepperoni grease. The real question is, where do you stand on pineapple?”

Jerry’s eyes widen slightly, and he glances between Danny and Steve. Steve laughs, quiet but very pleased. “You’re gonna piss off one of us either way, man,” he advises, cocking an eyebrow.

“Um,” Jerry hedges, and Danny almost—almost!—feels bad for teasing him this way. Almost.

“I’m for it?” Jerry says at last. Steve laughs again, louder this time, and Danny glares daggers.

“Fine. Fine! That’s a pineapple for you heathens and a pepperoni for me.” Danny pulls his cell out, pulls up the number of the only pizzeria nearby that he’s deemed tolerable. As it rings, Steve lays back in the sand. Jerry swipes and eats the last piece of maple walnut fudge while, not too far away, the ocean laps gently.

And yeah. Yeah, Danny’s okay with this, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the headcanon for a while that Danny and Jerry actually became friends pretty early on. I think the fact that Jerry is sort of the default babysitter by season 7 put this in my mind; Danny doesn't let just anybody around his kids, and although Grace seems kind of indifferent, Charlie clearly adores Jerry, so it must mean he's been around a fair amount. Anyway. That's where this came from :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam falls apart at a crime scene. Jerry helps him put himself back together.

Because Adam Noshimuri held his brother while he bled to death—because he received his father’s body piece by piece in cardboard boxes—he had more or less assumed that nothing else could horrify him. Hurt him, shock him, maybe even break him. But horrify? No.

He was wrong.

Because what he’s looking at now—what he’s seeing, and hearing, and _smelling_ —it’s—

It’s—

Vaguely, dimly, he’s aware of the others’ reactions. Considering the circumstances, they’re almost composed. Someone is maybe weeping a little. But the only person screaming, Adam comes to understand, is him.

And how the fuck is anybody looking at this and _not_ screaming—?

“Somebody,” Steve’s voice cuts through, “take him! Somebody take—Jerry, take him!”

The words register, but Adam flees anyway; doesn’t wait for his escort but stumbles outside alone, into fresh air and daylight. He manages perhaps ten steps from the building. Then the contractions in his stomach win out and he’s forced to bend double, gagging unproductively, honestly hoping he’ll vomit because it’s distasteful, of course, but also probably the only thing that will make him feel less sick—and he feels _so sick_ he can hardly take it—

“Hey, you’re okay, man.”

In just these short words, Jerry’s voice sounds so familiar and sincere that finally, for the first time in minutes, something besides absolute horror unfurls in Adam’s brain. The feeling isn’t safety. He might never feel safe again, but he does feel—something better. Amidst the frenetic, bloody chaos he feels—

“I’m gonna put my hand on your back, okay?”

Adam nods tightly. Then there’s a warm, comforting pressure between his shoulders, and he uses it to focus himself, to start the long crawl back up the hill, because there’s no use in denying that he already went over the edge.

“Hey, let’s get—we’re gonna get you sittin’ down, okay? We’re really close to some steps, we’re like twenty feet away from some steps, I’m gonna help you walk there.”

Adam nods again. Jerry can take over; he’s completely all right with that. He coaxes his body to unbend, to lean against Jerry’s bulk—

They make it most of the way.

Then something clicks.

The world fills itself out and Adam processes the stairs, then the ground, then the buildings—remembers schematics and strategy and remembers (how did he ever forget?) what he _saw_ , and—

Everything inverts once more.

The edges of the world are all inside-eyelid black-red-colored and he can’t feel Jerry’s hand, though he knows it’s still on his back. “I’m g—” he gasps, tilting, “I thin’ ‘m’nna pass out.”

“Okay, hey, we’re here. We’re sitting. Put your head between your knees. You’re okay, man.”

Adam sobs. It’s the only way he can get air in. He tries to grab onto Jerry and sobs again when he can’t, but he can hear Jerry’s voice, and that will have to be enough. It’ll have to do.

“You’re okay,” Jerry is saying; hasn’t stopped saying. “You’re okay, Adam. You’re okay—”

*

At length, the world settles, until Adam is conscious of things he wasn’t before: his feet on the ground, Jerry’s arm around his back, and his head, not between his own knees like it’s supposed to be, but resting on one of Jerry’s.

And the headache.

Shit, the _headache_.

It feels like his brain fell out and got shoved back in again, which isn’t too far off from what really happened, in a sense.

And he’s shaking. The steadiness of Jerry’s body pressed against his own just makes it all the more obvious that he’s trembling with weakness, muscles all used up like he just re-racked a two-hundred-pound weight.

“Hey, man. You with me?”

Now that he’s put his head down, he somehow can’t pick his head up; all he manages to do is shift from leaning on Jerry’s knee to leaning on Jerry’s shoulder.

“Yeah, ‘m—I’m all right.”

“Whoa, hey, take it slow, man. McGarrett almost called you a bus; he’s still gonna if you don’t watch it.”

“Did I pass out?” Adam whispers. Because he knows what the last few minutes felt like, but not what they looked like to anyone else.

“Kinda?” Jerry replies. “You never, like, fell all the way over, but you weren’t answering when we talked to you, for a while there.”

“Is,” Adam begins, then has to swallow against a surge of saliva. “Is everybody okay?”

“Yeah. Everybody’s fine, man. Nobody was in there. Nothin’ was in there except—”

“Yeah,” Adam whispers, and swallows again. “I—”

“Hey. Don’t. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, man.” Jerry’s still got an arm around him, and he jostles him a bit. It’s a kind, brotherly gesture, though it also worsens the still-present nausea. “If you hadn’t’ve freaked, somebody else would have. Probably me, so.”

It’s then that another pair of shoes enters Adam’s limited visual field.

“Hey, brother.” Steve lays his hand on Adam’s shoulder as he crouches, but puts no weight there. “How you holdin’ up?”

“I’ll be all right.” It’s hard to part his lips very far, and his words sound similarly small. “Just— need another minute to catch my breath.”

“You take the time you need.”

Adam nods against Jerry’s arm. He should say more, should attempt to explain himself, but he’s so damn weak that even these few words have left his teeth chattering.

He can’t look at Steve any longer. Can’t bear the compassion he sees, where he should see disappointment, so he just curls tighter against Jerry’s side and lets the tremors overwhelm him.

*

In the end he only allows himself a few minutes more. Then the balance tips, and in an instant he once again needs pride more than comfort. Jerry helps him to his feet, then to the cars.

By the time they’re back to the palace, Adam’s more or less under control; he gets sick in the men’s room, but after that, rejoins the team, works the case.

Solves the case, in fact. He’s not the final say, but he isn’t dead weight either.

But when it ends, when there’s nothing more work to be done, Adam slumps at his desk and buries his face in his hands.

A knock rouses him, after some time. Then the door opens, and heavy, hesitant footsteps approach.

“Adam?”

Adam lifts his head, and blinks at Jerry, dumbly.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

“No,” Adam croaks, then clears his throat. “I c’n drive. I jus’ didn’t realize how late it’d gotten.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Jerry?”

Jerry stops. Tilts his head while waiting for whatever’s coming next.

“How are you—okay?” Adam manages, without too much fumbling.

“Me?” Jerry smiles. “Dude, I’m totally not. My—my plan for tonight is to get drunk on my couch and cry my _freaking_ eyes out. You’re welcome to join, if you want company.”

Jerry’s not kidding, Adam realizes—about any of it—and he laughs, miserably. “I might.”

“You don’t gotta let me know or anything, just text if you come, you know, text when you’re outside.”

“Okay,” Adam whispers. And Jerry forces another smile, and goes.

*

Adam gets home safely. Then he throws up in the kitchen sink, because it’s closer than the toilet is, at the moment that his nausea crests.

He cleans it up, and brushes his teeth. Then he chases a slice of dry toast with three doses of Pepto Bismol and a shower, and after that, he’s all right. Stomach-wise, anyway.

In other areas, not so much: he’s functional, the panic attack now a shitty, embarrassing memory, but he’s not okay.

He startles at the sound of a car passing by. Tears up when Lou texts, asking after him. It’s as though he’s grown a thousand miles of extra nerve endings and they’re all brand new, beyond sensitive, and patently refusing to stand down.

He puts on sweats and an old t-shirt. Sips at some tea and tries to pray, but that goes absolutely nowhere.

Instead he hauls himself to his car. Uses the last of his emotional energy to get himself somewhere safe, and ten minutes later he’s parking and sending a text message. Walking up short steps to a familiar front door.

Jerry doesn’t actually look like he’s been crying; he does, however, look halfway to drunk. As Adam steps into the apartment he sees what can only be termed a blanket nest on the couch, and as he watches Jerry crawls back inside it, closing it up, surrounding himself with softness.

“There’s wine, if you want some,” Jerry mumbles. He gestures vaguely to an empty bottle on the end table.

“Think you finished it, Jer.”

“Okay. There’s more in the kitchen.”

“Feelin’ kinda sick, actually.”

“Oh.” Jerry sighs. “Couldjou bring it in anyway?”

“Sure,” Adam replies, feeling himself smile a little. Miserable as he still might be, around Jerry, it’s hard not to smile.

In the kitchen, in the fridge, he finds a giant bottle of Moscato. He pours himself a quarter glass, then brings the rest to Jerry, who uses it to fill his much larger glass, within a millimeter of spilling.

“Sit,” Jerry grunts.

Adam sits. Toes his shoes off and pulls his feet up, shoving them under the edge of the nearest blanket. Kicking Jerry a little, though Jerry doesn’t seem to mind.

They’re silent for a while. Adam manages to finish his wine; meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, Jerry’s gotten down what looks like half this second bottle. He’s gone deeper into the blankets, too. The one that was draped around his shoulders is now bunched up and all but cradled against his chest, and he nuzzles it, now and then.

All-the-way drunk by now, if Adam had to guess.

And it occurs to him that probably Jerry is even less equipped to handle this than he himself is.

He clears his throat, unfurls a little. “Do, um. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Jerry snuffles and peers up, dizzily. “No. Do you?”

“No.” And suddenly Adam’s eyes are watering, worse than before. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”

“Well. That’s that settled.”

Adam smiles, through now-falling tears. Watches as Jerry pours himself some more wine, tosses it back, and sighs loudly. “You want any more?”

“No. That’s all you.”

“I don’t need any more. Do you want, um. Do you want food, or something?”

“Can I have a blanket?” Adam gets out, surprising himself that he went ahead and asked for it. But Jerry looks like he understands. He passes Adam a soft, yellow blanket, and doesn’t react in the slightest when Adam wraps it around himself like an actual cocoon.

It’s already warm. Warm and soft and heavy enough that it keeps him from floating away.

The air conditioner is blasting. The TV is on for background and, below that, Jerry sounds vaguely like he’s snoring, even though his eyes are open.

And though Adam thought he’d never feel safe again—he does.

*

When Adam wakes his back is stiff, eyes gummed up, stomach rumbling. It’s dark inside Jerry’s apartment; only the red lights on the DVD player and the green light on the smoke alarm pierce through the blackness. Then the world behind them appears slowly as his eyes adjust.

Jerry’s left the couch, but only for the recliner a few feet away; he’s fast asleep, a familiar silhouette even when painted in foreign, nighttime greys.

Close enough to be woken with a whisper. But obviously bequeathing the couch to Adam, who accepts, and stretches out across its full length.

There’s going to be nightmares. His, or Jerry’s, or both.

Somehow, unexpectedly, this does not keep Adam from falling back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been mostly on top of current eps this season, but I went back and rewatched the one where Adam moves into his apt— and realized I remembered like none of it from the first time around. (Must have watched it at my dad’s house—too many dogs to pay attention to instead of the TV!) Anyway I just about died when the picture he hangs up is one of him and Jerry and Lou. And then in that dinner scene? The way the camera showed Jerry’s reactions WAY more than anyone else’s? So basically you’re telling me Jerry and Adam are BFFs now and I love it.


End file.
